Gitmo
by CaptScarlett
Summary: Booth’s flying coach and he's not a happy camper. No spoilers, just one FBI agent in a very bad mood.


**A/N. Dedicated to the coffee ice cream lady. You make me want to scream, and not in a good way.**

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All he wanted to do was pummel something.

He didn't need a reason to be in a bad mood. He just was. He didn't care if it was irrational or illogical or any other of the annoying things Bones would accuse him of being, he just was.

_Accuse_.

Loaded, angry choice of word Booth.

Semantics.

Sweets.

Booth's hand tightened a little more on the armrest that wasn't taken up by the sumo wrestler wannabe overflowing into his seat.

The Feds were sending him south for some case out in the middle of nowhere that the locals weren't equipped to handle. Which was just a nice way of saying they were too damn stupid. He had to give up his weekend with Parker, miss the kid's little league game and because of what? A bunch of incompetents. It was a miracle the world kept turning with the number of people in it who couldn't actually do their jobs properly.

He was flying solo too. No rookie agent that needed baby-sitting to keep him company, no Bones tagging along and making him smile. She was spending the weekend with her new genius boyfriend at some bone related seminar. Well good for them, Booth didn't care. It didn't bother him, really, if she was happy then he was happy for her.

_Riiight_, a little voice in the back of his mind taunted.

Oh, who was he kidding! Absolutely no-one. Just the thought of them together pissed him off.

_He _wanted to be the one who got to kiss her. He wanted to buy her flowers, wine her and dine her. He wanted to make love to her, fall asleep with her head on his chest and wake with her hair tickling his face. Hell, he wanted to take her over her office desk and make her come so hard she'd scream out his name in ecstasy.

He didn't. He hadn't, and he probably never would. Lines weren't meant to be crossed, rules not made to be broken.

And right now dinosaur guy from the museum probably had his hands all over her doing everything Booth wanted to do and couldn't.

Men were all pigs.

_Hey, you snooze, you lose pal,_ the voice reminded him.

Yeah, whatever.

Now all he wanted was to break something, to beat the crap out of someone. Vent until there was nothing left to vent. And he was stuck on a plane. He slammed his head into the seatback in frustration.

Coach. Couldn't the government afford anything better? God how he hated flying this way.

Especially when he'd specifically requested an aisle seat and instead found himself stuck between a fat guy who smelled like he hadn't seen the inside of a shower in a week and a woman who, when she wasn't climbing over him to retrieve something from the overhead luggage bin, just wouldn't stop talking.

Booth wanted to tell her to shut up, that he didn't give a damn about her grandchildren or her husband's kidney stones, but all he could do was smile and nod and pretend to care.

Why not just be the bastard? It would take ten seconds, maybe twenty if you really let her have it, and then you'd have the rest of the flight to yourself in peace.

He wanted to, desperately, and yet he couldn't.

Pathetic.

He took a few deep breaths.

Everything annoyed him.

The look of fake politeness the stewardess gave him when she delivered the food. Annoying.

If Booth were in better humour he might think she was flirting with him. As it was she'd probably return to her station behind the curtain or wherever it was they went and complain to her colleagues about the passengers. It's what he'd do if he were her. Either that or accidentally spill a drink on a patron's lap. She was a glorified waitress for God's sake, and no-one in that profession, a stint in a steak house during a high school summer break had taught him, liked the job.

No-one.

The way his knees rubbed against the seat in front of him and no matter which way he squirmed, which butt cheek he chose to sit on, he just couldn't get comfortable. Annoying. And why the hell was that seat reclined anyway? Didn't they know they should be sitting in the upright position when the so-called meal was served?

The way the man to his left made sucking noises when he chewed on his revolting airline food, the way the spoon he was using knocked against his dentures with a dull thud every time he shoved another load into his fat face. Very annoying.

The way the woman on his right now breathed in her sleep. Beyond annoying.

He wanted stick a pin in that ridiculous neck pillow that was doing nothing to support her head, just for the satisfaction of waking her up and putting someone else besides himself in a bad mood. But knowing his luck she'd probably just shift in her seat til her head found his shoulder.

Then he'd have to rip the hardback copy of War and Peace - people actually read that tome? - out of her hands and bash her on the head with it. Booth almost smiled at the irony. Almost.

Sweets would have something to say about that no doubt.

_Do you think your violent tendencies stem from your abusive childhood, Agent Booth? _

_They're only fantasies Sweets, they don't mean anything unless I carry them through. _

It's not as if he was going to go around shooting clowns or anything. Not real ones at any rate. He could keep it all under control. If he didn't they'd have him in a psych ward or he'd be building Gordon Gordon a second home complete with gate house and swimming pool.

Booth opened his laptop and pretended to work.

A baby began to scream. Lovely.

He could feel the walls closing in, feel his anger simmering just below the surface. He wanted to pull out his gun and fire a whole in the window. Get sucked out and plummet thirty thousand feet to his death just to get away from everyone. Except he wasn't carrying his weapon - possibly a good thing - and that whole getting pulled through a hole in the side of the plane idea was only a figment of movie makers' imaginations.

Also, while he wasn't suicidal quite yet, God tended to frown on such endeavours.

He felt like he was channelling Hodgins when he'd broken up with Angela. Sweets said it was healthy to be angry, to use misanthropy as a coping technique. Booth wasn't sure it applied in his case.

He wasn't using it as a coping technique, he felt this way because he was failing to cope and that was not a good thing. At least he wasn't gambling, he felt no need for it, or resorting to drink. He was just plain irritated with everything and everyone.

And now some little shit kid was kicking the back of his seat again. Or should that be still? He'd turned around twice and asked him to stop. Nicely. Now all he wanted to do was belt the punk. Punch him in the nose with a sharp right hook, feel the cartilage give beneath his fist, hear that crunch of breaking bone and see the inevitable flow of red down his chin. Replace that smug smirk on his face with tears of fright and pain. He didn't.

_Not responding_, jeered the computer screen at him_, looking for solution_. Shit.

Close.

Cancel.

Cancelcancelcancel for God's sake.

He fought the urge to throw the machine against the wall and depressed the 'on' button, held it down with more force than was either necessary or prudent and shut the stupid thing off.

Now all he needed was for his chatty neighbour to wake up and want to go another round.

Angela would probably tell him to go jerk off in the bathroom, that he'd feel so much better after he did.

In an airplane toilet? Had she seen those things? With the piss all over the floor because men couldn't aim straight during turbulence? Hell, men couldn't aim straight in public toilets that were located firmly on the ground either.

No thank you.

And even if he wanted to he'd probably fall over trying to get there because he'd lost all feeling below his right knee. Then he could lie on the floor and kick and scream and drum his heels like Parker used to do in the local grocery store when he was a toddler, writhing and performing in the cookie aisle, until his father walked off and he found himself alone without an audience.

Only problem with that plan was that it would probably end with him in custody and a mobile phone video on youtube. Booth really didn't want that.

He wanted to be at a firing range, emptying clip after clip into the poor innocent paper target. He wanted to be teaching a punch bag a lesson. He wanted to hit the gym or pound the pavement, keep going until his chest felt like bursting and every muscle in his body burned.

He wanted a vacation, he wanted a stress ball.

He wanted Bones.

And all he could do was sit quietly and stew.

FIN.

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**A/N Sorry, I'm having a stressful time at work at the moment and needed to vent, click the button and help me feel better. Thanks for reading.**


End file.
